


The Picture of Extraordinary Romance

by emo_messiah



Category: My Chemical Romance, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Artists, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Depression, Dorian Gray - Freeform, Eating Disorders, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Gay, Gender Dysphoria, Happy Ending, Himbo Frank Iero, Homophobia, Mentions of Abusive Relationships, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Suicide, My Chemical Romance References, New York, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pansexual Character, Queer Character, Queer Themes, References to Drugs, References to Oscar Wilde, Trans, Transphobia, Underage Drinking, basil hallward - Freeform, basil!gee, dorian!Frank, emily dickinson - Freeform, enby, himbo!frank, painter!gerard, poet!frank, queer sex, the picture of dorian gray - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emo_messiah/pseuds/emo_messiah
Summary: Gee Agnes Way is a queer nonbinary starving artist exhibiting in New York City with their gay gang from art school. Gee has fallen hopelessly in love with Frank Iero, a himbo, a poet, a student of literature, and new to the local underground art scene. Frank has found a new desire to stay forever young, forever free, forever beautiful. When Gee and Frank get attention from the outer, very heterosexual, art world, they must both learn to deal with the pressures of success, pleasing the critics, and staying true to themselves as queer artists.This is very loosely based on The (uncensored) Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. You in no way need to read it to understand this fic.I'll specify trigger warnings when each chapter comes up, a lot discussions of characters' past but I'm dealing a lot with transphobia and homophobia in the art world
Relationships: Cecily Cardew/Gwendolen Fairfax, Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	1. Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Slight discussion of homophobia and transphobia, deadnaming, smoking

The studio floor was soaked with crimson, orange floral wallpaper doused with turpentine, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the green potted plants, there came through the pale blue window the New York haze of mauve smoke, which overpowered the heavy scent of paint thinner.

Black mould grew out of cracks in the ceiling that branched out from the doorway. Canvases lined each wall. Some were the size of eyeshadow palettes and others the size of stained-glass windows. Dried oil paint tubes and old uncleaned brushes scattered across the floor. An antique vintage velvet couch stolen from a garage sale sat against the wall.

  
  
Pete Wentz, the current occupant of the couch, had faded dyed black hair straightened by a flat iron. Eyeliner applied with thick strokes. A loose pink silk shirt half buttoned up; chest exposed. Tucked into his tight black leather pants. Ankle boots with the thick two-inch heel. A cigarette in his mouth, thin layers of blue smoke drifted towards the window. 

An easel stood in the centre of the small studio. Upon it balanced a painting of a man with ivory shaved sides and vanta-black hair curled over his right eye. Eyes covered with crimson shadow. His head turned mid motion towards the viewer. Background had suggestions of objects and figures which faded into the void. 

  
  
The painting was dreamlike, strokes short and textured. An impression of a person rather than a replication. 

  
  
Gee Agnes Way sat on their stool and observed their artwork. Black unwashed and unbrushed hair fell to their shoulders. Old torn Motorhead t-shirt and black skinny jeans intertwined with dried oil paint, even their cheeks had rose-pink paint stains. 

  
  
“This is your best work yet,” said Pete and rested his arm on the armrest. “You must exhibit it. _Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge_ , the very gay and very underground gallery I told you about the other day, is accepting a new artist in residence. However, you must not apply to _Pray for the Wicked_. It’s bourgeois trash. I had to review five shows for _Folie à Deux_ publication, and all the artists were complete sell outs. All shock, no substance.” 

  
  
“Who said I will exhibit it?” said Gee with their head tilted up staring at the man in the portrait. “I don’t think I will.”

  
  
“May I remind you, you’re a starving artist in New York City and you haven’t exhibited any art in the last couple of months. You have crafted the greatest work of your career and you won’t exhibit?” 

  
  
“I’m glad we agree.”

  
  
“I won’t speak to you as an art critic, but as a friend, you’re mad. All painters are fucking mad. You all want respect and success and are trained through a long rigorous process to perfect your craft. Though when the situation arises that you may gain recognition for your hard work, you turn it away as if it were never your intention in the first place.”

  
  
“You can’t predict success. It’s lucky, not genius.”

  
  
“True on both accounts. However, I know what sells, what gets attention. Shock culture is always there, but those artists don’t get remembered in fifty years. Talent is timeless, while shock is of its time.”

  
  
“Not all talented artists get noticed.”

  
  
“You hardly have a chance of fame if you refuse to exhibit. Is that what you're scared of?”

  
Gee hesitated, “Not exactly.”  


  
Pete smiled through his cigarette, “I would give your painting an excellent review.”

  
  
“In exchange for what?” Gee glared. “You won’t catch me on your fuckboy pokedex.”

  
  
Pete rolled his eyes, “Always so _dramatic_ , Gee. I gave you a compliment! I realised long ago that we won’t fuck. I am at peace with that. If you’re scared of what people might think, you shouldn’t be. It’s one of the most beautiful paintings I've ever seen.”

  
  
“Your words won’t sway me. This painting will never be in a gallery.”

  
  
“I’ve begun to think that you don’t want to be an artist anymore.”

  
  
“I went to art school, have a crippling amount of student debt, make art in all my free time, continue to be underpaid for my work in a call centre, never get enough sleep, and spend all of my money on rent because I take great joy in being poor.”

  
  
“You haven’t exhibited any art for months. What else am I supposed to think? Did I tell you that Ray is forming a group show at _Take This To Your Grave_ , you won’t get noticed there. If that is what you are worried about.”

  
  
“The life of an artist isn’t all about shows, galleries and exhibitions.”

  
  
Pete balanced his cigarette between his fingers, “Will you give me an honest answer to why you won’t exhibit it?”

  
  
Gee looked at the studio floor, “I can’t.”

  
  
“Why not?”

  
  
“Because you will laugh.”

  
  
“I promise I won’t.”

  
  
Gee looked out the window, “There is too much of me in this painting.”

  
  
Pete swallowed his laughter. “Too much of you? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I didn’t realise you had shaved the sides of your hair, bleached them blonde, pierced your lip, or got any tattoos. For one, you hate needles. I’m sorry, but this person looks nothing like you, could never look anything like you. They have been forged from marble and ivory-rose. All I see is a mysterious person, who you will not tell me the name of. They fascinate me. However, I can’t say I see any of you in it, not at all.”

  
  
“It’s not to be a self-portrait. That’s not what I meant.”

  
  
“Do tell.”

  
  
“Of course, I don’t look like him. I’m aware of that. When an artist creates an artwork, it doesn't matter the medium: sculpture, painting, film, poetry, we place a part of our soul into it. No matter how hard we try not to, it’s there for others to find. That’s the curse of an artist; we can’t escape ourselves in our art. It’s a fool’s errand but yet we do run away to our own sanctuaries and realm of dreams. When we do, we are unaware of what part of our soul we are showing the world. A true artist always recognises their soul in their art and when they have put too much into it.”

  
  
“Not all art is autobiographical. There are great artists that put little of their life in their art. For one, one of your favourite artists, the abstract expressionist and fellow queer, Agnes Martin.”

  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, Agnes is a queer icon. However, she didn’t paint of this world, she painted when ‘ _inspiration_ ’ hit her. Her soul was disconnected from this world, but still in her work.”

  
  
Pete exhaled a large amount of smoke that floated towards the window, “I don't understand what about the painting bothers you.”

  
  
“Once you put something out in the world, you can’t take it back. An artist has to be careful to not reveal too many secrets.”

  
  
“What will anyone think other than you painted an attractive man? Is that your _deep dark_ secret? That you’re a queer enby? You came out years ago.”

  
  
“I am very aware I came out, Pete. However, I didn’t paint this from life. I painted this from memory. From the moment I met Frank Iero I knew he had to be in my art.”

  
  
“His name is Frank Iero? You actually said his name?”

  
  
Gee gasped, “Um? No?”

  
  
Pete grinned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone, “Frank _Iero_ , how do you spell his last name…”

  
  
“Please don’t stalk him.”

  
  
“He’s a poet, photographer and has two thousand followers on instagram,” Pete smirked. “So that’s why you're infatuated with him. He is actually attractive, not to insult your vast talent but you are quite the _romantic_.” –Pete tapped a few more times on his phone— “Frank Iero will perform poetry tomorrow night. We have been truly blessed by the universe.”

  
  
“We? No way. You’re not meeting him.”

  
  
“Why not?”

  
  
“Please, Pete, I beg you to trust me. There are so many reasons why I haven’t introduced him.”

  
  
Pete laughed, “Jealous much? I won’t steal your boyfriend from you. I want to meet him, that’s all.”

  
  
“He is not my boyfriend.”

  
  
“We will see about that. However, will you at least tell me the truth about why you don’t want to exhibit the painting?”

  
  
“It’s not that hard to understand.”

  
  
“Go on.”

  
  
“Ryan Ross invited me a couple of months ago to a group show that he had curated, and it was terrible. All the artwork either was glued to the ceiling or the floor which left the walls empty. It was hard enough not to step on work, even harder to look at. Even though they were college graduates, Ryan could have picked a better section of artists. Some looked inspired by Romanticism and others by Minimalism. Not in a contemporary way of reinvention, but bland imitation of _Turner_ or _Frank Stella_. This is Ryan’s _Avant Garde_ aesthetic but seemed very immature.”

  
  
Pete laughed, “I remember once Ryan curated a show where we all had to wear hazmat suits because an artist had exhibited a chunk of raw uranium ore in the middle of the gallery. It was quite memorable, but it’s not what I would call good art.”

  
  
“Ryan told me he had met a brilliant poet called Frank Iero. He was in college studying literature, had a lot of talent and that I must meet him. He pointed him out in the crowd, and I saw Frank for the first time. Our eyes met and I grew pale. A curious instinct of terror washed over me. Part of me wanted so desperately to meet him, but another part knew that if I were to, that his mere presence that I found so intoxicating, would consume my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I had never felt that before. I didn’t want that sort of influence over my art. Since it has been so independent, about me not anyone else.”

  
  
Gee continued, “I told Ryan I would meet Frank later and I had to leave. Ryan tried to stop me; I didn’t let him. Words fail me to describe what I felt that night, only that I could think of nothing else but Frank. I thought that not speaking to him could prevent it, but I had started to become absolutely devoted to him. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so until I met Frank Iero. I know that sounds strange or sudden, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  
  
Pete was silent and inhaled smoke from his cigarette, “The word you're looking for, my dear friend, is love.”

  
  
“Love is a very strong word.”

  
  
“Have you seen him again?”

  
  
“Of course, I have! I see him every day. How could I not! It’s an honour to be in the presence of such beauty, even for a minute. The next time I saw him I was at a Spoken Word night. I didn’t know that he was performing there. When he got on stage, I felt that peculiar sensation again. After the poetry had ended, I search the space until I had found him. I couldn’t stop myself. I knew I was on the verge of a terrible life crisis. I couldn’t not return to who I was before. It was foolish what I had done the other night. It was inevitable that we would meet. Frank agrees with me, he told me that destiny brought us together.”

  
  
“I’m happy for you. However, why is this the first time you have told me of Frank? You seem to be in love with him. I’m unsure how you would categorize me, but you are my best friend.”

  
  
Gee rolled their eyes, “You know you're my best friend, Pete, and again love is a strong word.”

  
  
“How the fuck else am I meant to interpret the words _‘consume my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself’_? You performed an entire monologue about your love for him and you refuse to exhibit him.”

  
  
“He has a girlfriend.”

  
  
“Are you sure?” Pete elevated his eyebrow. “He has no picture of her or any women, for that matter, on his instagram.”

  
  
“Please don’t go on his instagram. This is one of the many reasons why I haven’t told you about him. He does have a girlfriend. I met her. She is a lovely woman, they go to the same college, they deserve each other.”

  
  
“Is there any chance you will tell me her name?”

  
  
“No way.”

  
  
“Fine. How _tragic_ , Gee. Really is. But I don't see how that prevents you from exhibiting?”

  
  
“He is all my art to me now. Sometimes I think there only two eras of great importance in the world. One is the discovering of a new medium of art. The other is appearance for a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil painting was to the _Venetians_ , what the face of _Antinous_ was to Greek sculpture, the presence of Frank Iero will one day be for me. It not merely that I have painted from him, drawn from him, model from him, of course I have done all that. However, Frank is much more than words can express. Though, there is nothing art can not express. The part of my soul that I put into every brushstroke has him in it. I have tried abstraction, realism, watercolour, charcoal, clay, every possible medium, whatever art I create they all have him in it. I can not escape him. Since I met Frank, I have created good work, my best work in fact. He is a part of my art that I never want to lose, even if that means not showing my art in a gallery again. I will give it all up for Frank.”

  
  
Pete’s eyes widen, “This is madness. You can’t say you will never exhibit again!”

  
  
“Frank has changed how I see the world. I see him in certain colours, deepest reds, coolest blacks, electric blues, vivid greens. I see him in the curvature of nature, of certain lines. I don’t want to experience a world without him. He has defined for me a new school of art, one that has all the romantic spirit and all the perfection of passion that is Ancient Greek. The harmony of body and soul. We in our madness have separated the two. If only you knew what Frank meant to me.” 

  
  
“This man has changed you…”

  
  
“I worship him.”

  
  
“Worship? You said love was a strong word.”

  
  
“How could I not! He is the only man worth worshipping.”

  
  
“That’s why you won’t exhibit your painting?”

  
  
“Because I have put into it all the extraordinary romance of which, of course, I have never dared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He will never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Pete, too much of myself!”

  
  
Pete sighed, “It’s a beautiful Oscar Wilde quote, Gee. However, unlike Oscar, you won't be put in prison for sexual deviancy for world guessing you’re a queer.”  


  
“That’s not what I meant.”

  
  
“So what if _they_ guess? So what if _they_ know your secrets? Is this what you are afraid of? A world that knows you’re queer? All the greats are queer. If not, queerness would have vastly improved their art. I thought the queer shame had dissipated in art school.”

  
  
“I’m not ashamed to be queer. But the world doesn’t accept those like us. The art world or any space has had to deal with queer artists. When we get too popular, they try to ignore the fact that we are queer. Or harass us and our supporters, admirers, fans in their media. Or play our queerness off as if it's an eccentric quirk of artists. They ridicule us. We are freaks in their eyes.”

  
  
“Fuck the art establishment. They are all rich fucks! This is how they silence us. Fear is how they win. There have been too many paintings of the conventionally attractive women to symbolise ‘ _beauty_ ’ which were created to please the rich. It’s fucking dull. Where is the queer beauty? Where are our stories? Our voices? That’s what I want in a gallery. Fuck the homophobes. Your art deserves to be seen!”

  
  
“Pete, I agree with you. But that’s easy for you to say, you’re not an artist. Your heart isn’t ripped apart and sewn back together every day by complete strangers. You don’t have to deal with the prying eyes of the curators, the viewers, the critics, who all try to decrypt your very experience. They act as if they know it all. When they get it wrong, is it my fault or theirs? Does it matter? The art is mutilated to fit another’s agenda, the art market, or some other bullshit trend. I couldn’t handle that with this painting.”

  
  
“Don’t let people like me stop you. I’ve never known you to create art to please the art world. All great art pissed them off. Imagine being the critics who insulted Henri Matisse, Claude Monet, or Jason Pollock. We are frauds who desire to be what the public calls _intellectuals_. We know everything about nothing and that is why we are listened to.”

  
  
“I know what it’s like to be criticized and insulted. I’ve had to deal with queerphobia all my life, from the eyes of strangers whose opinions seem to hold value. Every gallery I’ve shown at, who aren’t run by my friends, have misgendered me despite telling them that I use they/them pronouns. I know what is like for the world to treat me as a freakish monstrosity. But my work has never been about this before, its themes were abstracted. This painting is different. It’s more about me, yet so much more about Frank.”

  
  
Pete slammed his fist on the armrest, “That’s why you need to exhibit!”

  
  
“That’s why I never will. And never will exhibit any art ever again.”

  
  
“Gee, that’s ridiculous—”

  
  
A knock at the door. No one stops by the studio other than Pete at this time of day.

  
  
Another knock, “Gerard, are you in there?” said the delicate voice of Frank Iero.   


  
Pete rose and had a mischievous smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is loosely based on The (uncensored) Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Emphasis on loosely, it’s not a emo retelling of the novel. More similar in theme and ideas, than plot. This is a love story, and Dorian Gray isn’t.
> 
> You don’t need to read Dorian Gray at all to understand this. For what it is worth, it’s one of my favourite books, it's in the public domain (you can download for free right now!) It was published in 1890.
> 
> Gee Way is Basil Hallward.  
> Pete Wentz is Lord Henry.  
> Frank is Dorian Gray.
> 
> I love Oscar Wilde, as you might have guessed. If a line sounds good, I probably stole it from Oscar lets be honest. 
> 
> Shout out to a fellow queer and poet, Emily Dickinson, “Words fail me” is stolen from one of her letters to her lover Susie. I didn’t come up with that. She will be appearing quite a bit through this fic
> 
> Anicent greeks thought homosexuality was the highest form of love, if you dont know a name its probs greek and stolen from Oscar Wilde, he called everything gay, greek bc there was nothing else to really call it at his time
> 
> If there are any mistakes or missing words or if something sound weird tell me, whenever i copy my fic into ao3 sometimes it removes words at random?? i think its just out i set up my word doc but its really annoying
> 
> you can follow me at @ gayemomessiah on twitter


	2. The Cult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Smoking, Deadnaming

“Jump out of the fucking window,” muttered Gee.

  
  
Somehow Pete’s smile grew more mischievous. 

  
  
They scrambled to hide the portrait of Frank Iero behind the array of canvas. The rich odour of turpentine had seeped into their flesh. They wore no make-up. Their hands and clothes interlaced with oil paint. They were not ready for this visit.

  
  
“Ger—” They turned. Pete had opened the door. Frank stared at Pete and tilted his head. “You’re not Gerard.”

  
  
Frank tugged at the hem of his Smiths t-shirt he had stolen from a concert at fifteen. Faded black jeans had turned brown, self-torn at each knee. Red converses unlaced. Hair stuck out in multiple directions. Blonde sides had grown half a centimetre out. Gee had to remember to dye it later. Bags under his eyes had the rhythm of the impressionist _Claude Monet’s_ depiction of waterlilies.

  
  
Gee sighed, “Frank, this is Pete Wentz, a friend of mind.” 

  
  
“I didn’t know Gerard had friends. It’s nice to meet you.” Frank outstretched his hand. 

  
  
Pete guided Frank’s hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. Frank’s cheeks turned a shade of magenta rose. “It is a marvellous pleasure to meet you, Frank Iero. I have heard the most immaculate things about you.”

  
  
Frank’s cheeks deepen in shade, “I have heard nothing about you. Gerard hasn’t mentioned you once.” 

  
  
Pete glared at Gee, “That is a _tragedy_. Do come in. I will tell you whatever you would like to know.”

  
  
Frank strode in and leant against the windowsill. He held a ziplock bag of tobacco and rolling paper. His hands trembled as he placed the tobacco in a line. When he tried to roll the cigarette, the tobacco slid to the floor. 

  
  
“Fuck,” mumbled Frank. Pete offered Frank a cigarette. Frank stanched and lit it with his turquoise lighter he perpetually borrowed from his roommate, Rob Chiltern. The way his lips caress the cigarette was mesmerising. 

  
  
Frank paced back and forth. Hand fidgeted with his skinny jean pocket. He hadn’t caught Gee’s eye yet.

  
  
“Is everything okay, Frankie?” They asked and sat down on their art stool.

  
  
Frank stopped and stared at an old rugged oil brush on the studio floor, “Do you think I’m a bad poet?”

  
  
“No, of course not. Your poetry takes my breath away.”

  
  
Frank ruffled his hair. “What if they laugh at me? Or hate me? Or think I’m crazy?”

  
  
“How could anyone possibly think that?”

  
  
Frank turned his head and gazed Gee. They would have started to draw him if they were not so transfixed. 

  
  
“They’re right,” said Pete. He sat down on the velvet couch, his legs crossed and faced Frank.

  
  
Gee turned at Pete and rolled their eyes.

  
  
Frank said, “You think Gerard is right?”

  
  
“You must understand, Frank, painters have a tendency to be overly _dramatic_ in every aspect of their lives—”

  
  
“Frankie,” said Gee. “Don’t listen to a word Pete says. He is a bad influence—”

  
  
“However,” Pete continued. “Every word that Gee has spoken about you I believe to be true. I couldn’t be sure until I met you in person, but you are as extraordinary as they say you are.”

  
  
“Extraordinary?” Frank stared at Pete, motionless. Gee picked up their nearest sketchbook, stick of charcoal and drew. 

  
  
“Do you not see it?”

  
  
“No one calls called me extraordinary. Except Gerard. Gerard says a lot of things. No one at college has said anything close to that. My professors think my poetry is too immature and my friends think my poetry has too much angst. They tell me to study more Keats and Lord Byron.”

  
  
Pete laughed, “Of course they do. They are academics. Their prime concern is preservation of the classics. Don’t be one of them. That artificial thought wears out your skin and you have such divine skin. It would be a shame to lose it to academia.”

  
  
“My professors do look worn out...”

  
  
“That’s what a doctorate does to you! I suspect that your fellow students want to become old hags as well. Never trust an academic, it’s a ghastly profession.” 

  
  
Gee looked up from their charcoal sketch of Frank, “Pete, don’t say such things.”

  
  
“You know it’s true.”

  
  
“This man is a bad influence, Frank. Ignore him.”

  
  
Pete smirked, “I told you that painters have a flare for the dramatic. As an art critic, I will offer you a piece of wisdom; there is no such thing as good influence. All influence is immoral –immoral from the scientific point of view.”

  
  
“Why?” asked Frank.

  
  
“Pete, shut up,” said Gee.

  
  
“Take the criticism of your art from your professors for example. Like your fellow students, if you would have followed their advice you would be a poor man’s Keats. The work suddenly lacks essence, passion, artistry. It would become more of your professor’s art than your own. Therefore, it would be immoral to take their advice if you were to continue to be an artist rather than an amateur craftsman.”

  
  
Gee teeth dug into their lip, they wanted to respond to Pete, however, Frank had such an exquisite expression on his face. Eyebrows narrowed. A cigarette balanced between his crimson faded lips. Lip ring reflected the bleak orange light of the studio. Arm rested next to the potted plants.

  
  
“But you’re a critic? Isn’t it your job to tell artists what’s right and wrong?”   


  
“There are no rights and wrongs in art. Everyone says it. Do they believe it? I doubt it. All critics are frauds. We want to shape art to be our own. We persuade, manipulative, seduce others to create the art for us and then say what art is worth looking at. It is very immoral of us. I have accepted that.”

  
  
“If you know critics are wrong, why are you a critic?”

  
  
“Because I have no talent. It’s the same with all critics. I tried to go to art school, and it was a gay disaster. Gee witnessed it all. I love art but I don’t have the courage to make it. I transferred to art history. I learnt how immoral all civilized history is. History is taught as if these great messiahs blessed us plebs with their wisdom and changed the world. They love to ignore revolts, rebellions, revolutions of the oppressed that did the changing. It’s too ugly, too gruesome, too poor for their _liberal intellectual_ eyes.”

  
  
Pete continued, “They say their ‘ _objective_ ’ yet tell history from the point of view of the oppressors. They are infatuated with the mad cult of _genius_ , who are all mysteriously rich cis white men, even though many are queer, they take great pleasure in leaving that part out. Academia is a cesspool of old rich men who scream no homo as they jerk each other off. I can’t change that, but I try to give queer artists a voice, however, small it may be.”

  
  
Frank leant on the windowsill, the colours of New York traffic reflected in his irises, “I haven’t thought about it that way.”

  
  
“Cult preachers sound more convincing the longer you listen to them. The prey on the young, the naive, the innocent. The greatest cults are in places no one would think to look.”

  
  
“College is a cult?”

  
  
“Academia. Why else would there be thousands upon thousands of papers only the enlightened few called academics can read and write. Force the poor to be financially indebted to them. Sell the lie that only intelligence can happen there. Continue to hoard knowledge. The cult has operated like that for centuries.

  
  
“I didn’t think about it like that. ”

  
  
“I’m unsurprised. They couldn’t comprehend true beauty if it stared them in the face.”

  
  
“What would that be?”

  
  
“My young _Adonis_ , you know very well what it is or rather who.”

  
  
Frank peered out of the window, rested his cheek in his hand, and inhaled smoke from his cigarette. The layers of Prussian blue smoke danced around his face before it ascended. 

  
  
“You are beautiful, Frankie,” said Gee. Frank met their eyes. They picked up a scarlet oil pastel to match his cheeks. “As much as Pete loves the sound of his own voice, I have to agree with him here.”

  
  
“I can’t— I mean, I’m not...” 

  
  
Gee blurted, “How can you think that?” 

  
  
Frank hesitated, “I don’t know I guess people like me don’t appear as models in magazines or celebrities on tv. I’m not fit. I’m not very masculine. I don’t imagine myself as the image of an ideal man. I don’t look like Brad Pitt or David Beckham. I don’t hate how I look but when people imagine beauty, I don’t think this is what they would see.”  


  
“How wrong you are, Frankie. What else could someone think of?”

  
  
“Gee is right,” Pete started. “I’ve begun to think that the one subject Gee and I agree on is you. Why would beauty appear in magazines? The images that appear there are what one would call ‘ _conventional beauty_ ’, what I call _artificial naturalism_. Society is obsessed with the blessed few who are _a natural born beauty_. Everyone is raised to believe in two ‘ _fundamental_ ’ categories, male and female. Masculine and feminine. Man and woman. If you do not aspire to be those stereotypes, you're branded ugly. Its cruel what society does. How the rich profit off the manipulated insecurities of the poor. I don’t blame any soul that has succumbed to it, we all do. We are taught that it is wrong to be different, an outcast, however, it’s a gift.”

  
  
“A gift?” said Frank. “I thought it was a curse.” 

  
  
“Beauty is not an image— it’s an idea.”

  
  
“What do you mean?”

  
  
“It’s how you walk and talk, how you hold yourself, present yourself. It is not in the way you are born but the way that you choose to express. How you change your body to reflect who you are. I don’t claim to be an expert in beauty, some understand themselves better than others. You have that gift, my dear. Never let anyone take that away from you.”

  
  
“How do you know when someone has beauty?”  


  
“It’s more difficult the older you get. The more influence, the harder it is to stay true to yourself. The heterosexuals on accident have one thing right, youth is beauty. It’s not a universal truth that youth is more ‘ _objectively_ ’ beautiful, however, you are freer. Freedom is what lays the basis for beauty.”

  
  
“I haven’t thought about beauty like that before.”

  
  
“I don’t blame you. You’re on track to join a cult. It’s a shame because you are in your prime, college can steal your freedom, thus your beauty. College demands to breed wraiths because if we all had a taste of human liberation, the world would be a much more moral place and much less profitable for the rich! Hold onto your freedom for as long as you can, the more influence, the harder it is to find. Freedom is the only thing worth having.”

  
  
“I didn’t realise college was so bad.”

  
  
“Immoral is what I would call it. It’s a learning experience; see the beasts for what they are. There are valuable lessons to learn from one's enemy. Though, student loans are a fucking bitch and should be abolished.”

  
  
“I didn’t know I was losing my freedom. How do I keep it?”

  
  
Pete sighed, “I can’t give you all the answers, Frank. I wish I could. It’s impossible to be completely free in such an immoral world. However, don’t compromise for anyone. It’s hard when you're a starving artist. I’ve seen too many great artists conform; think of all the brilliant art they could have blessed the world with. That’s why youth is important, you don’t have all those ghastly influences.”

  
  
“Does beauty fade?”

  
  
“Unfortunately, it does. Only time will tell for you, my dear Adonis. Cherish it. You will regret it later when you don’t.”

  
  
“Can one be beautiful forever?”

  
  
Pete chuckled, “That’s the dream, is it not? It’s a worthy goal. I know some free spirits that have been able to hold onto their freedom through decades. It’s hard to get back once one starts to lose it, though not impossible.”  
  
“Have you seen it come back?”

  
  
“Alas, not my field of expertise. I haven’t lived long enough to say. I’ve seen many people grow more beautiful in time, some fluctuate, it depends on their connection to their freedom as I said.” 

  
  
“How do you know when you’ve lost it?”

  
  
Pete sighed, “It's hard to tell. Depends on the pace you have withered. I wouldn’t worry about yourself. Your beauty is still flourishing.” 

  
  
“What happens when you lose it?”

  
  
“You become dull, stale, lifeless. It’s rather horrid. Look out the window, New York is full of ugly hags.”

  
  
“I don’t think I want to lose my beauty.”

  
  
“Nor do I, Frank, nor do I.”

  
  
“I wish I could be beautiful forever.”

  
  
“A noble wish.”

  
  
Gee added, “It would be an honour.” 

  
  
Frank’s eyes flickered towards them. Caught the light of the neighbour’s bleak yellow desk lamp. Scarlet gold-leaf lips parted. Cigarette intertwined with his fingers, almost burnt out. They placed their phthalo green oil pastel down in the margin of their sketchbook.

  
  
He took four steps towards them. The span of a coloured pencil left between them. Cigarette smoke laced breath travelled down the space between their shirt and chest. The warmth electrified their skin. He placed his tender hand on their sketchbook which rested in their hands.

Frank whispered, “May I?”   
  
Gee nodded. His hand lifted the sketchbook. Green oil pastel rolling towards the side, fell into Frank’s hand. Placed the pastel back into their palm. Flesh did not touch. They wrapped their fingers around the pastel. Frank’s aura radiated through their fingertips. 

  
  
“You make me look so… beautiful.” Frank mumbled. His eyes lingered on each sketch. The page filled with small loose charcoal studies and oil pastel colour studies of Frank in the studio. “I don’t understand how you do it.”

  
  
They grinned, “I have an excellent subject, don’t I?”

  


A smile crept on his face and flipped the page. Large charcoal sketches of Frank standing next to the window still, cigarette balanced in between his fingers. Other hand curled around his hair. Lips parted mid-sentence. 

Frank asked, “How do you draw like this?”

  
  
“I could ask you the same thing. How do you write poetry like that?”

  
  
Frank flipped another page. Monochrome fuchsia rose sketch of him in the woods as he bent down to picked silver mushrooms. Moonlight reflected off his lips. Jeans ripped on his thig, the ends laced in dirt. The same red converse he wore today. They had spent the day together searching on foot for the whisper of solitude in the forest. 

“Will you come tomorrow?” 

  
  
They beamed, “Of course, Frankie. I’ve been psyched for it all week.”

  
  
Frank titled his head to Pete, and continued to flip through their sketchbook, which had older studies of him, “I’m performing my poetry tomorrow tonight at the _Pretty_ _Odd_ space. If you’re free, you're more than welcome to come.”

  
  
Pete had outstretched his arm over the length of the couch, “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

  
  
Gee glared at Pete, “What Pete meant to say was, he is busy. You are seeing Patrick tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  
  
Pete laughed, “I am actually seeing Mikey. I’m sure he will understand.” –Pete reached for his phone— “Maybe I’ll invite Mikey as well.” 

  
  
Gee’s mouth left wide open, “Pete, no! Don’t you dare.”

  
  
“Who’s Mikey?” asked Frank.

  
  
“My brother.”

  
  
“I didn’t know you had a brother!”

  
  
“You will meet him tomorrow,” said Pete. “He is not an Adonis like you, my dear, but I dare say he is quite an Eros.”

  
  
Gee’s eye grew wide, “What the fuck, Pete? You fucking bastard.” Pete had compared their brother to the Greek god of sex and pleasure.

  
  
“This is so exciting, Gerard,” Frank giggled. “I can’t wait!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie I am very invested in this fic. I think about it too much. There are so many scenes I'm so excited to write!!!
> 
> From this point on it's probs going to diverge a lot from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde bc well it aint set in the victorian london!
> 
> Also this story is from basil (gee) perceptive not Dorian(Frank). It's pretty more just baz/dorain fanfiction than frerard. I think of this as my oscar wilde fanfiction bc it kinda is, you will see, if i ever finish this.
> 
> Adonis is the young mortal god of beauty an desire and a lover of Aphrodite. I'm also a gay boy bc Oscar keeps mentioning him. i also have an uncle called adonis, my family is from greece but i live in australia!


	3. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Deadnaming, dicussion about deadnaming, mentions of homophobia and transphobia, d slur

Gee and Mikey’s room was crowded. Gee’s boot collection stacked in a corner. Comic book collection in another. Mikey’s objects for his conceptual art scattered in various places. Gee’s cinnamon tinted vanity had stacks of eye shadow palettes, eyeliners, foundations, all organised by type. 

The olive-green walls covered in posters; David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, Adore by The Smashing Pumpkins, The Idiot by Iggy Pop, which hid the broken plaster the landlord refused to fix. 

Pete lay on tie dye sheets on the bottom bunk of Gee and Mikey’s bed. One arm behind his head. Another held his phone. The bed frame found thrown on the sidewalk. Gee painted it black to hide its rot.

Pete wore a black buttoned floral shirt created by Ray Toro, a fashion designer. Tucked into his high-waisted tight black pants. Short black laced boots with a thin three-inch heel hung off the edge of the bed.

Gee lived in New Jersey, a forty-minute public transport ride from New York City. Rent was too expensive in New York and less than a third of the price in New Jersey. They lived with five other house mates: Mikey Way, Ray Toro, Gwen Fairfax, Cecil Cardew, and Bert McCracken.

Pete said, “Imagine gazing upon Frank Iero, and coming to the conclusion that he is a heterosexual man.”

Gee searched through their wardrobe for an outfit for Frank’s performance at _Pretty Odd_. They held out a black pencil dress. Too dull for this evening. 

Gee said, “What dress should I wear?” 

“Every time Frank's eyes caught yours. _Adorable_.”

They held a black maxi dress, a low neck and curled in at the waist. Too informal. “Pete, I need ideas.”

“How you called him _Frankie_! He could have self-combusted with his check colour alone.”

They held out a black mini dress with a collar and clear buttons down the middle. Too revealing for tonight. “Can you stop talking about Frank?”

“Why did you had to hide your portrait? He would have loved it. ”

“Pete, are you listening to me!” Gee reached to their vanity and threw a make-up brush. 

The brush hit Pete in the chest. He laughed, “I know I’m a fashion icon. I will help you pick fuckable clothes for your date.”

“It’s not a date. I’m not dating Frank.” 

“Why do you still believe Frank is straight? What about him that _screams_ to you that he is a hetero?”

“Pete, he has a girlfriend.” They held their long black halter dress, open at the back and tied around their neck. This was the dress they were looking for. 

“Need I remind you that you are _practicing_ pansexual.”

“He hasn’t told me his is queer. I can’t assume.” Gee took off their work clothes. Over a decade of friendship with Pete, they often changed in front of each other.

“You assume he's straight? For a trans queer enby, that’s very heteronormative for you.”

Gee placed the dress over their head. It fell around their waist, “Frank is dating a woman.”

“As a bisexual man, I am offended. What the fuck kind of bi or queer erasure is this?”

They looked in their vanity mirror. Tied the lace around their neck to hold their dress up. “He hasn’t shown any attraction to men. However, he does have a girlfriend and is attracted to women. I conclude that he is straight.”

“He is attracted to you.”

“We are friends, nothing more. If he was, I’m not a man.” Black vertical ripples of the dress flowed to their waist and back out. The fabric arched around the front of their legs and trailed on the floor behind. The front lower half of their legs were visible.

“You’re not a woman either. Therefore, he is a queer man.”

Gee sat on the floor to look at their boot collection, “Don’t assign labels to him.”

Pete sighed, “A man who happens to be attracted to an enby. Is that label less enough for you? Also, why the fuck does Frank call you by your dead name? No one has called you that since art school.”

Gee leaned back with their arms on the floor behind them. They sighed, “Um… I… It— just happened?”

“I don’t care how much you adore Frank. You’re not that person anymore. He knows you're an enby, right?”

“He figured it out?”

“Is he okay with it? I will slap that bitch’s pretty face if he transphobic. Transphobes deserve to be ugly.”

Gee picked up their thigh high pink laced boots. Colours didn’t match their outfit. “Of course, he is. I’m fine with him calling me…”—Words stuck in their throat— “Gerard… It’s fine. I’m fine. End on discussion.”

“I’m not ‘ _fine_ ’ with it! How did he find out?”

Gee picked up their doc martin with a neon yellow laddered lace. Too casual. “He asked what Gee was short for. I may have said… Gerard?”

“Gee doesn’t stand for anything!”

They touched their orange ten-inch platform boots. Too tall. “I couldn’t bear the thought that he might be transphobic. I panicked. I said my dead name. It’s my fault. I have to suffer the consequences.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re back at art school or god forbid, _high school_. You want me to talk to him?”

Gee picked up knee high black platform boots with a heel with silver laces. These were the gothic boots they needed. “You will do no such thing, Pete! You will never see him again after tonight.” 

“I doubt it. For one, he is your boyfriend and another, he has followed me back on instagram and twitter.”

They put one boot on and laced it. “Fuck you.” 

He rose from the bed. Leaned on the bed frame, “Excellent choice of dress, very gothic, very revelling. Frank will _swoon_. However, those boots? They won’t do. You need colour.”

“Says the man in all black.”

Pete pointed at his shirt, “Gothic gay floral but still floral. What about your make up tonight? Let me guess… _Ava Adore James Iha_.” James Iha being the rhythm guitarist of the Smashing Pumpkins.

“How did you know? I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m a gay psychic. Top of gay pecking order does come with its perks.”

“I did force you to watch _Ava Adore_ ten times today—”

“Thirteen! Eyeliner. Green cheeks. Blindly highlighter and glitter. Gothic gown. What about your fallen angel wings?

“Ray is making them.”

“For the best, Frank would faint from all that swooning. What about your holographic green hooker boots?”

They loved those boots. Ray made them out of the holographic material they bought when they were drunk. Pete convinced them to have an online shopping spree. 

They took off their platform boots. Searched their boot collection and couldn’t find their green boots. 

“Gwen!” Gee yelled. They walked out of their room and down the stairs. “Where are my green hooker boots are?”

Gwen and Cecil’s room, to the right of the staircase. They had the largest bedroom. Gwen was Gee’s ex from art school and one of their best friends. Cecil was Gwen’s black butch girlfriend and a full-time graphic designer. 

A double bed with orange sliced patterned sheets. Canvas leaned against their walls. A rich lavender odour lingered. Despite Gwen using oils, it never smelled of turpentine. Paintings, drawings, and graphic designs hung on the walls.

Gwen wore a straighten mosey brown wig with a blonde ombre, parted in the middle. Thick glued eye lashes. Heavy mascara. Red lip stick. Filled in eyebrows. Pink eye shadow to match her hot pink cocktail dress, tight fitted. White slip on heels. 

Gwen sat next to Cecil on their bed. Cecil applied intense amounts of blush to Gwen’s cheeks.

Gee leaned on the doorframe. Pete beside them.

Pete said, “You look like you’ve crossdressed as straight lawyer, who after a longs days’ work lying about how a business didn’t commit tax fraud, is about to go to heterosexual nightclub.”

Cecil laughed, “I based to look off my homophobic cousin you dated.”

“Jenifer? The botanist? Now that you mention it, Cec, you have channelled her annoying heterosexuality. She wouldn’t let me take her to drag shows, where the fuck else are we meant to go? To a fucking nursery?” 

Gee said, “Gwen, are you wearing a push up bra? Don’t tell me that’s Bert’s.”

“Gee, I am _accentuating_ my curves,” said Gwen.

“You sound like me in my Georgiana days. If you don’t want to look like a queer impersonating a hetero, drop the pink. Straight girls don’t only wear pink. I had to learn that the hard way.”

Gwen smiled, “You’re missing the point.”

“Which is what? Your cosplaying a straight girl? For fun?”

“I’m going out.”

“In that?”

“So are we.” said Pete.

“Where are you going?” asked Gwen.

“Could ask you the same thing,” said Gee.

“I’m meeting my sister.”

“Edith? You hadn’t spoken to her in years.”

“After she told me to stop dating you, the _crossdressing homosexual._ She is convinced you turned me into a dyke. She reminded me of that over the phone yesterday. Once a bitch, always a bitch.”

“Your hetero bum chums now?”

Gwen laughed, “She invited me to dinner to meet her Mormon fiancée with the parents. I’ve been instructed not to look like dyke. It will give their in-laws heart attack.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m looking like an obnoxious heterosexual. I never knew how thrilling it was. Might flirt with a straight man.”

“Cec, you have some competition.”

Cecil said, “Honey, I out masc any man.”

Gwen kissed Cecil’s cheek, stroked her face and said, “Damn right you do, Cec.” 

Gee said, “Gwen, enjoy being a straight girl while it last. But where are my green hooker boots?”

“First, where are you going?” Gwen smirked. “About a boy called Frank, perhaps?”

Gee turned to Pete, “What the fuck did you do?”

“I did nothing,” said Pete.

Gwen laughed, “The entire neighbourhood could hear you screaming about your boyfriend from your room. It explains why a wannabe insta model twink followed me on instagram.”

“You didn’t follow back? He is not my boyfriend!”

“Like how Bert wasn’t your boyfriend?”

“He wasn’t”

“What do you call that?”

“I call that cheating on you.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, “We were non-monogamous.”

“I am aware, but I cheated. I lied about it for months.”

“You were lying to yourself.”

“Lying about being a straight boy for twenty years didn’t help. Nor did repressing my emotions. Anyway Gwen, do you have my hooker boots?”

Gwen rose, reached into her closet, and held them, “To Impress a certain someone?”

Gee snatched the boots from Gwen. “I hate you. I hope your sister Mormon fiancé falls for you.”

They walked out of Gwen’s room and back upstairs into their room. Sat on the fall and put on their thigh high hooker boots. Pete leaned against the doorframe

The front door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps came from the stairs. Subtle and soft. They were Mikey’s footsteps.

“I hear we are going out tonight,” said Mikey. He wore his supermarket work clothes. Straighten hair. Black and white rimmed glasses. He took off his black scarf. Pete grabbed and placed Mikey’s scarf around his neck.

Mikey glared. Pete whispered, “Gee knows.”

Pete was shorter than Mikey, even with his heels. Mikey adjusted the scarf around Pete’s neck. Pete smiled. Mikey smiled back. He pushed Mikey against the wall and kissed him. Mikey wrapped his arms around Pete’s neck.

“What the fuck was that?” said Gee and clenched the boots in their hand.

“You said they knew,” whispered Mikey.

“I don’t want to fucking know. Pete, get your hands of my brother.”

Pete smirked and rested his head on Mikey’s chest. “Gee, you have to get used to it. We are fucking.”

“Mikey, I kissed Pete! Why is this happening?”

“We were thirteen, Gee,” Pete said.

“Pete has fucked everyone in this house,” Mikey said. “Every queer that is attracted to him in New York City. Except you, Gee.”

Gee said, “Don’t to do that in front of me.”

Pete said, “You kissed Gwen in front of me.”

“I wasn’t dating your best friend.”

“We are not dating!” Pete and Mikey said in unison.

Gee glared at Pete, “Let’s lay down some rules.”

Pete said, “This is ridiculous.”

“Rule one: break up.”

“We are not dating.” Mikey and Pete said in unison again.

“Stop acting like a couple! Stand six feet apart at all times.”

“Stop acting like a child,” said Mikey.

Pete said, “Will you stand six feet apart from Frank at all times?”

“That’s different,” said Gee.

“Who is Frank?” asked Mikey.

Pete said, “Gee’s boyfriend.”

“He is not my boyfriend!” Gee said.

“Like how Bert wasn’t you boyfriend?” said Mikey.

“Ask Bert yourself when xe gets home, we didn’t date.”

“Wait… Frank Iero?”

“Pete, what did you—”

“The random gay twink followed me on instagram? I thought he followed me because I was just _that_ attractive.”

“You are, babe,” said Pete.

“Pete, don’t call my brother ‘ _babe_ ’. Don’t follow him back, Mikey, please. ”

Mikey said, “Frank Iero is hot twink, there aren’t many people who will deny that.”

“Babe,” said Pete. “You can stare him a lot more tonight on our double date.”

Gee said, “Again, don’t you dare say ‘ _babe_ ’ to Mikey. It’s not a double date. You said you two weren’t dating.”

Pete said, “We aren’t officially dating. We’re _casually_ dating.”

“Is there a fucking difference?”

“Of course, Gee. An enormous one.”

“Which is?”

“It’s not official. Its _casual_. I’m currently casually dating another fourteen people.”

“Why the fuck does one of the have to be my brother?”

“Gee, get used to it.”

“Don’t we have a double date to go to,” said Mikey.

Gee sighed, “I hate both of you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its been a while since i've updated! the updates probably all will be very sporadic. as i'm writing this i'm writen 45k words (mostly unedited), about 16 chapters. i havent abandon this fic not at all. i think about it everyday. it has a lot of plot, so i need to go back and change things  
> i'm writing loads ahead and then posting them as I edit each chapter intensely. though i might go back and change things whenever i feel like it. 
> 
> Pete is so fun to write, he isnt in every scene but when he is, i could write him forever.  
> i would also die for gwen and cecill they are so cute  
> you can follow me at @ gayemomessiah on twitter  
> also if you were wondering why frank deadnamed gee this is why! remember gee uses they/them pronouns! but also they are very cool with neo pronouns, if you want to use some to describe gee.


	4. The World Shall Be Ours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Alcohol, discussion of repressed homosexuality, Deadnaming (please tell me if there are others) 
> 
> Also contains an poem "Shit's bananas when you're disinterested" by Frank Iero/ftwillz. the ftwillz version (i believe) is in here. Frank has one sign with his name, which used have on his website when i started writing this fic in dec 2019 it was there but idk if its there now?? 
> 
> I haven't edited the poem, i only changed the indentation, i mean i just entered it and made stanzas for it to look more like a "traditional" poem. The only time i will edit frank's poems is if it seems like he is misgendering gee bc it wouldn't make sense, so i'll just replace the pronouns (there's one i know i might have to replace) 
> 
> Anyway that is the reason why this is frerard fanfiction bc i needed Dorian Gray to be a poet and i can't write good poetry and Frank's poetry is truly amazing. As a massive fan of poetry (as you will see int his fic), i mean that.
> 
> If you dont know who ftwillz is google him and go down that rabbit hole. If you've never read ftwillz you will now! If you love ftwillz, well this is the place to be, there's going to be a lot of frank's poems popping up. I dont really care who they are actually about, I'm sure you all have you opinions, I just need some good love/angst poems for this fic.

The poetry began. Gee stood amidst the crowd in _Pretty Odd_ , an underground gallery, no reputation for rich collectors. Free from the ominous art market and, therefore, the gallery had no money. Gee abandoned Mikey and Pete. Left them to their _casual_ dating status. Five other poets performed before Frank. 

Frank walked to the microphone. Head down. Three belts of metal chains clanked against each other. He tugged at his leather jacket. He wore a tight _The Cure_ t-shirt. Black super-skinny jeans. Red converse stains of grey and violet oil paint. 

He looked up. Eyes flicked towards Gee. They smiled. Frank smiled for a moment, before he returned to his’s petrified stare. He looked back down. Pulled his crimson notebook from his inner jacket pocket. Bit his lip hard enough that blood trickled down his chin. 

Frank flicked through his notebook and stopped on a page in the middle.

Frank cleared his throat, “This poem is called ‘ _Shit's bananas when you're disinterested_ ’”

_Mein Kompfy sweat pants and your old sweater met their match today._  
_They danced through our phone conversation,_  
_and fought the whole time I ate pancakes._

_The 3 of us thought of you when i bit my lip,_  
_denounced god,_  
_went blind with rage,_  
_and even when i typed this meaningless drab till 6 in the morning._

_I think they're going to be good (meaningless) friends._  
_Not the kind that are nice to each others faces_  
_and talk shit the moment the other has left the room._  
_More like the kind that meet by fucking the same mutual friends a week apart,_  
_cause they are young and carefree and have so much in common,_  
_not cause they are roach infested whores._

_They look so happy together,_  
_great things are going to come of this,_  
_i promise._

_When you come home I'll show you._  
_(if i can only get those stains out.)_

_We'll laugh 'til our noses bleed,_  
_and the windows shatter._

_You are mine my darling,_  
_and the world,_  
_yes the world_  
_shall be ours._

Applause from the audience. Frank look up from his notebook and caught Gee’s eyes. They beamed. Frank looked down and tried to contain a smile. Frank closed his notebook and rushed off stage. 

More poets performed after Frank. The last act was a so-called _Avant Garde_ band. One of musicians rolled out a washing machine. Another held an electric guitar with four string jammed by a drumstick. Another held a nail gun. The last held three spoons and walked up to the microphone. 

Gee didn’t stick around to hear the latest on the underground _Avant Garde_ music scene. They wandered around until they found Frank with his arm around Debra Vane’s waist, his girlfriend. 

She had blonde hair, burnt with a flat iron. Brown roots exposed. Ends dip dyed in battery acid. Navy-blue dress unremarkably expensive. Foundation too warm for her skin tone. Blush too opaque. Burgundy lipstick clashed with her dress colour. Diamond earrings looked like they were purchased at a jewellery shop in a mall. Silver locket looked unopen, empty on the inside. Shiny had worn off her plain black heels.

Frank was fond of her and so was Gee. 

Pete and Mikey stood opposite Frank and Debra. Mikey wore a black turtleneck and black skinny jeans. Pete still wore Mikey’s scarf. Pete said something to Debra, Gee wasn’t close enough to hear it. Pete spun to face Mikey. Pete and Mikey’s eyes shared whispered that only they would understand. Mikey’s lips moved and they laughed together. He took Pete’s glass of red wine and sipped it. Pete leaned in, adjusted Mikey’s glasses. Arms fell around Mikey’s neck. Mikey’s arms moved to Pete’s waist, glass in hand. Pete pulled him close and kissed him like a bumblebee in search of nectar in the summer. Pete winked and turned back to glared at Debra. Mikey’s eyes lingered on him. 

Gee’s blood turned to acid and walked over.

Pete said, “I have never met a single soul that studied economics and could hold an intellectual conversation.”

“What?” said Debra.

“Exactly.” 

Gee said, “Don’t listen to Pete, Deb. He is a bad influence as I told Frankie.” 

Frank dropped his arm from around Debra and placed them in his jacket pocket. He smiled and turned to face them. A faint stain of blood on his chin. The cut was buried on lips, only one with a keen eye would stop it. Frank parted his lips. 

Debra said, “We were discussing economics.”

Pete chuckled, “She is a fan of _Adam Smith_.”

“Supply and demand.”

“That’s right-wing bullshit. Why do hundreds of millions starve in the third world while the UN releases a report every year that say we produce enough food to feed the entire world? There _seems_ to be a demand there. Demand doesn’t drive capitalism, profit does. The same way we could house the homeless and have thousands house left over. The state doesn’t do it because it’s not profitable.” 

“It’s more complicated than that.” 

“Is it? It shouldn’t be. It’s a right of every human to have their basic needs met, eat, sleep, shelter, clothes, water. However, more than that I think it’s a right of every human to have the capacity of live a fulfilling life. Free quality education. Democratic control over their workplace and society. End to any form of oppression, exploitation, and inequality. The abolishment of class.”

“That’s not possible.”

Pete rolled his eyes, “Of course, you think that. You study to a bourgeois economics. It’s your interest to fuck over ordinary people for the vast profits of the few.”

“That’s not at all what economics is about—”

Gee interrupted, “Debra! How are you?” 

Debra turned, “I’m well.”— She squinted her eyes— “Are you alright, Gee? Your cheeks are… green?”

Pete cackled and stumbled into Mikey’s chest. Mikey placed his arm around Pete.

“It’s eye shadow.” 

“On your cheeks?” 

Frank took a step toward them and said, “You look beautiful, Gera— I mean Gee.” Frank had never called them Gee before.

Gee said, “What? You don’t have to call—”

“Ava Adore, right?” 

Gee nodded.

“What?” said Debra.

Frank turned, “Gee’s look is inspired by James Iha.”

“Is he an artist?”

“He’s a musician and a fashion icon,” Gee said.

“Never heard of him.” Gee wasn’t surprised that Debra hadn’t heard of James Iha the rhythm guitarist of The Smashing Pumpkins. 

Frank said to Gee, “Want to get drinks? I’ll pay.” 

“No, it’s fine—” 

“Gee, I insist.” Frank walked into the crowd. Gee had to follow. They reached his side. He added, “You should have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“I’ve deadnamed you for two moths!”

“No… Frankie. It’s fine. I don’t care.”

“I do! I’m incredibly sorry. I feel so bad.”

“It was my fault.”

“How dare you say that! It was mine. I should have known.”

“I take it Pete and Mikey told you? I hope they didn’t get too passionate.”

“Only what I deserved.”

“Don’t say that.”

Frank stopped, “Gee, you are the most creative and interesting enby I’ve ever meet.”

“I’m the _only_ enby you’ve meet.”

“You know what I meant. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Gee looked down at their green boots. They wiped the tears out of their eyes. “Frankie, I… ”

Frank wrapped his arms were around them. Frank has never done this before. Even when they greeted each other, they never shook hands. His hands touched the skin on their back. Volts pulsed through their spine. Gee hung him back. Their hooker heels made them much taller than Frank. Frank’s head rest on their chest. 

Frank whispered, his breath hover above their skin, “I never want you to feel that way around me.”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Gee.

Frank looked up, “Why did you apologize? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I let you deadname me for months.”

“Gee, I deadnamed you. I should have realised that it made you uncomfortable. When I look back it was obvious.”

“But —”

“I will not hear another word about this. Accept that it was my fault. I must ask, Gee, will you forgive me?”

“Of course, I do, Frankie.”

Frank smiled, “Let’s get some wine then.”

They walked to the make-shift bar. Gee tried to order the cheapest wine on the menu. Frank refused and ordered for them. Frank handed Gee their glass of sparkling white wine. Frank grabbed his glass of red. 

Gee and Frank took a turn around the gallery and observed on the various art installations on display. 

A sculpture of a taxidermy man draped in velvet red robes who held a taxidermy nude man similar in age. The robed man looked distraught over the figure in their arms. The nude figure thin, skin latched around their bones, brittle to the touch. A gay contemporary interruption of Di Petra by Michelangelo, the Virgin Mary holding her dying son, Jesus Christ, instead a lover dying in their arms. 

A film which depicted neon lights that hung from the ceiling like a complex mobile hanging above a baby’s cot. Each neon light rotated at its own pace, in its own orbit, no relation to each other. The camera moved around the lights like a bird would avoid tree branches.

A flock of clay winged creatures hung mid-motion from the ceiling. From a distance they looked like bats however on close inspection they appeared to be fairies interbred with gargoyles. They looked curious and naive, not sinister. 

Gee stood under the installation. They flock form a protective dome above their head. 

Click of a polaroid camera. Gee turned. Frank lowered his old red polaroid camera from his eye. Waited for the polaroid to print. Fanned it dry. Frank gazed up, caught their eye, and smiled.

Gee smiled back and walked over. Frank handed them the polaroid as it faded into light. Gee’s head tinted on angle towards the creatures above. The creatures appeared to fly in circles as if they had created a gateway to another world. Gee seemed like they desired to ascend and let the creatures take them.

Gee handed the polaroid back to Frank, “The composition is beautiful. I don’t understand how you do it.”

Frank smirked, “If I were to post it to instagram, I know who to tag.”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t have an instagram, but you have had one for five years.”

“Frankie, I didn’t mean to—”

“Did you not want me to know? Is it meant to be a secret? Do you have a twitter as well? You said you hated social media. We hang out most days than not. I had to find it through Pete’s, someone who I have met yesterday.”

“You can follow it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had an instagram?”

“Frankie, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I didn’t want you find my friends.”

“Why not, Gee? I didn’t know you had any friends until yesterday. I didn’t know you had a brother! Not that I have many friends, but you’ve met Rob many times. You’ve met the people I know from Spoken Word nights and punk shows. You’ve met my sister, Bianca. You have talked over the phone to mum. My dad knows who you are. Even some of my Italian cousins know who you are.”

“All your friends and family are sweet. But my friends are… how else do I say this?… Gay and wild. It was wrong of me, but I didn’t want them to ruin our friendship.”

“How would they ruin it?”

“You don’t know them like I do. I’ve known Pete since I was five. He has a knack for sticking his nose into other people’s business where it doesn’t belong. Did you hear what Pete said to Deb? I agree with him but it impolite to start arguments with strangers for the sake of it. Pete probably is causing a scene right now.”

“I like Pete. Deb will be fine. She can hold herself. Whatever you friends say it will never ruin what we have.”

Gee took a sip of their wine and looked down, “You can post it on your instagram.”

“I noticed your instagram lacked any trace of your art.”

Gee took another sipped of wine, “Anytime I try to take a picture of it the colours look off, the lighting is bad, and the painting doesn’t resemble what it does in real life. Something is lost in the process.”

Frank smirked, “Luckily, your best friends with a photographer.”

Gee hesitated, “Frankie, your photography is brilliant. But I’m not ready to post it yet.”

“Tell me when you are, Gee. I’ll always be waiting. ”

Gee paused, “That poem today was beautiful. I haven’t heard it before.”

“I’ve felt inspired for some reason as of late.” –Frank’s eyes flicked to his wine glass and took a sip – “I finished it last week along with another fifteen other poems.”

“That’s wonderful, Frankie. I’ve had many new ideas as well. I’ve painted in oils a lot recently.”

“You must show me.”

“You must read to me your new poetry.”

“A poem for a painting?”

Gee grinned, “For you, Frankie. I’ll consider it.”

They both continued to stroll through the gallery and remarked on the various sculptures and installations throughout. Frank took more polaroids and used his small regular camera photograph them.

Gee and Frank made an entire lap around the gallery.

Pete said, “What do you mean _I’m Waiting For The Man_ by _The Velvet Underground_ isn’t about queerness?” 

Debra said, “It’s about buying drugs, not about being gay.”

“Pete, cut it out,” said Gee. 

Pete ignore Gee, “Lou Reed is gay, Debra! A gay junkie, not a straight one. You can not deny the queer subtext in the song. _'Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive.' 'I'm just lookin' for a dear, dear friend of mine.'_ Continuing to repeat ' _I’m waiting for my man.'_ Though you’re a cishet, you must know that it was illegal to be gay in the sixties. In New York City, it was heavily policed. If you did wear at least three items of clothes to match your ‘ _gender_ ’ you could be arrested, beat up or killed.”

“Deb, Pete is right,” said Frank. “It’s obvious the song has gay subtext.”

Deb looked at Frank, “Why? It doesn’t mention anything about being gay, it’s about drugs.”

Pete chuckled, “Are you trying to no homo Lou Reed?”

“I’m not talking about his sexuality. It’s not mentioned in the song. But didn’t he marry some women?”

“Have you never heard of a repressed homosexual before? Lou Reed had many affairs with men throughout the year. When he came out to his parents, they agreed to do electric shock therapy on him because he was gay. If that happen to me, I would be a fucking repressed gay boy as well. Lou Reed frequently visited gay bars, was flamboyant, love eyeliner, wore tight leather pants, studied literature, very artsy, in general an interesting person. If a queer person goes through their whole living in the closet, denying who they are, pretending to be straight, it doesn’t make them any less queer.”

“I don’t see how that has to do with the song.”

“Art reflects life, Debra! How can you not understand that? Artists make work based on their own experiences. Queer artists can’t escape their queerness, not matter how much self-hatred or repression they possess.”

“I can understand Lou Reed wanting to write a song about being gay, but I don’t understand how a song about buying drugs is gay. Don’t you choose what you make art about?”

Frank said, “Deb, it doesn’t work that way. Art is an expression of who you are. I can’t control what my poetry is about. I can’t sit down and write a poem about sheep or tissue paper. It must come from a place of truth. “

“You are right, Frank. Truth is at the core of great art,” Pete said. “You wouldn’t know, Debra, you never made any.”

“I’ve made art before!” said Debra

“What? A clay model in seventh grade. Received an A for because your art teacher proclaimed that you can’t _grade_ art. It is art, but not the sort of art we speak of or that exist in this gallery. You’ve never tried to make great art. If you try and fail at creating great art, you will understand what we mean.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Pete.”

“You are right. I do not wish to. You haven’t got a creative bone in your body. How do you stand your own monotonous existence? Must be horribly bleak. Even sleeping must be shallow as you don’t have an imagination to dream with. What do economist dream of? I’ve always been curious. Spreadsheets? Expected sales figures? The stock market?”

This conversation was out of control.

Gee interrupted, “Debra, how did you like the poems this evening?” 

Debra turned and forced a smile, “They were nice. Frank’s poem was very sweet.”

“My dear Frank,” said Pete. “It was more than _sweet_. It was best poem that I’ve heard in months. It’s a rare occasion that I meet an artist that has both intellectual and aesthetic talent. You have an aura around you that you must seize, use to your fullest advantage. “

Frank said, “What do you mean?”

“Talented artist are endangered species. They get sucked up by the horrors of capitalism. It my duty as an art critic to prevent that when possible. Galleries are an important step; however, they have a limited, curated audience. Galleries are often the death of good art. You must set your ambitions higher than only appreciation of niche underground art critics like me.”

“Do you think my poetry ready for that?”

“Of course, Frank. You were ready months, a year ago. Alas you haven’t had me to guide you. The world must hear your art.”

“The world? I don’t know, Pete.”

“Frank, they must! Consider it at the very least. Don’t be like Gee who refuses to exhibit any of their art for the last two months because of their irrational fears.”

“Gee, you haven’t exhibited anything?”

Gee said, “I’m not ready yet to show anyone my art, yet alone a gallery.”

“Sometimes I don’t want to either.”

Pete rolled his eyes, “I thought it was only painters who are mad. I was wrong, it’s talented artist. Those with talent tend to burn their masterpiece and the untalented show the atrocities they think count as art to every possible soul. No wonder the world has a lack of extraordinary artists.”

Gee said, “Pete, you’re being dramatic.”

“You would exhibit your childhood paintings, the ones on made with water down acrylics and on butchers’ paper while you throw your masterpiece into a volcano.”

Frank said, “Why would Gee do that?” 

“They must have a method to their madness.”

Gee said, “I’m not mad, Pete. I don’t plan on burning any of my paintings.”

“One of your favourite artists and the abstract expressionist, Agnes Martin was an avid destroyer of her own art.”

“Do you wish me to become one?”

“You’ve done it before.”

“That art I made in art school. It was horrid and didn’t have any space to store it. I don’t do it often.”

Frank gasped, “You destroyed your art?!”

“No, Frankie, it wasn’t good art. Burning old art doesn’t count. Agnes Martin used to have an annual bonfire of her art early in her career. She would spend half the year painting to only burn the art she didn’t like which happened to be most of it. It’s not an outlandish thing to do.”

“Burning is permanent. That art is gone forever. I have never destroyed a poem or a photograph. Not that read my high school poetry, but my mum does have it buried in a box in the basement. I would never throw it away.”

“I don’t have a mother’s basement to put it in. I burn the art I didn’t want to see. It won’t hang in a gallery. There’s no point in keeping it. What else am I meant to do with it?”

“You have my mother’s basement now, Gee. I’ll force her to let you store there if I have to. But please don’t burn your art again, let me keep it. Promise me that you will.”

“You make it sounds like I go to set alight to my paintings on mass.”

“When was the last time you did it?”

“My studio is small, Frankie. I don’t know? When I need more space? Maybe last month? I can’t remember. I usually paint over old work.”

“That’s the same as burning!”

“I am a poor! I work at a call centre. There’s not much I can do.”

“We will figure something out. I want to know the next to you will do something mad like that.”

Gee sighed, “Fine, Frankie. If you insist, I will tell you if I decide to destroy my art.”

Frank smiled and stepped closer to Gee, “Come on. I’ll buy you another glass of wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow aren't frank and gee adorable. most of this fic is going to be about their relationship and them being in love so we wont have to endure their no homo-ing forever haha only for a bit until they get their shit together.
> 
> as you can tell its now very different from the picture of dorian gray in terms of plot, only some lose plot points will be same, but we are two different things now.
> 
> follow me at @ gayemomessiah on twitter.


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